Storm
by Orion Lyonesse
Summary: When Avon and Vila teleport down to Red Thorn, all they want is a peaceful holiday, alone together, but everything goes horribly wrong. Will they both survive? And is it all an accident or a plot? Avon/Vila.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I don't own these Blake's Seven characters, but I do enjoy messing with them!

The steady rain beating on the old cabin's tin roof had almost lulled Avon to sleep. He'd sat holding Vila's hand helplessly for hours, trying to soothe the raving and feverish man with little success. As the light faded outside, Avon's hopes had faded too. Vila, of course, couldn't see the fading light.

For his own comfort, Avon climbed onto the head of the bed and drew the blind man's body into his lap in a tender embrace. Vila didn't awaken. His fever and fretting had left him more in a state of unconsciousness than sleep.

Avon murmured into Vila's thinning sandy hair, "I won't leave you again, Vila." He stroked the damp hair out of Vila's face and gently kissed the closed eyes. Then he just sat there, staring hopelessly into the increasing darkness, until he too fell asleep.

It began innocently enough. He and Vila simply wanted to get away together. That was all. Privacy on Liberator? It was like living in a glass box! Only behind locked doors could they be alone together Even then, something or someone was sure to interrupt them.

It wasn't that their liaison was a secret from the rest of the crew. They all knew and, mostly, approved of anything that kept Avon in a relatively good mood. Cally said it gave her good 'vibes' to have Vila so happy. Besides, she had Dayna to keep her company and they were quite happy with each other.

Tarrant was another matter entirely.

Something was eating at the young pilot, something to do with Vila. It almost seemed like he was trying to get rid of Vila, though Avon couldn't see any reason for that. Nevertheless, the curly-haired Alpha was dismissive of everything the little thief did.

He'd tried intimidating Vila, looming over him or crowding him whenever the two met. Avon had warned Tarrant off, and Avon's words, backed by his chilling smile, had kept Tarrant very carefully avoiding a confrontation with either of them for awhile.

Tarrant had tried, on Keezarn, not too subtly, to get rid of Vila once and for all. It hadn't worked, but it was a near thing for Vila. Avon had suspected, but couldn't prove, a plot by Tarrant, so he finally put it down to Tarrant's inept handling of the situation. Besides, what could Vila have done to inspire that level of dislike from him?

After that incident, though, with Vila seeming so melancholy and somehow bereft, Avon decided the two of them needed a holiday – alone! He'd directed ORAC to find an Earthlike, thinly populated planet outside of Federation space and influence where he and Vila could holiday – and out popped Red Thorn.

While ORAC couldn't, when asked, come up with a reason for the planet's name, it still met all Avon's requirements. Vila thought the idea of a holiday was okay but he couldn't raise much enthusiasm. Avon went ahead with his plans anyway.

Instructing Zen and ORAC to keep watch from orbit and having sent Dayna and Cally and Tarrant off to play in the only large city on the planet, he and Vila teleported to a secluded cabin far from anywhere, just like Avon wanted it.

Then things began to go wrong.

They materialized in an open area, near the lodging he'd reserved. However, when Avon tried to check in with ORAC, he discovered both their teleport bracelets were non-functional and they couldn't contact the ship. After an hour of fiddling and cursing, he gave up trying to fix them with the few tools at his disposal. All the same, he considered, shrugging to relieve the tension across his shoulders, this wasn't a big problem, since ORAC was set to retrieve them in two weeks' time anyway, even without their request. After that, he relaxed, determined to enjoy their holiday, though the failure of both their bracelets at once continued to niggle at the back of his mind.

He and Vila settled down to enjoy themselves. While Vila unpacked, Avon explored outside.

All in all, it was a pleasant spot. The rustic log cabin sat in the center of a wide open clearing circled by dense, dark forest on three sides. The fourth side revealed a trailhead that, on Avon's investigation, led down a winding trail to a deep, swift-flowing stream sparkling and babbling in the sunshine. As he climbed back to the clearing, he felt the tension of the last few months draining away, his mind turning from battle tactics and mission specs to birdsong and soft breezes. By the time he reached the cabin, he was striding easily, his shoulders had relaxed, and his usually stern expression had lifted.

Climbing the worn timber steps, Avon crossed a wide roofed porch that ran the entire length of the cabin and threw open the door. It was quiet inside, only the sounds of Vila rummaging about in the kitchen to break the silence. The smell of something cooking took him by surprise.

"Lunch will be in a few minutes, Avon," Vila called cheerfully from the kitchen.

"Can I help?"

"No, no. This galley doesn't have room for two bodies, anyway."

At loose ends, Avon prowled about the cabin, evaluating their temporary home.

The cabin was seemed snug enough. It was one large rectangular room. A huge fireplace took up a third of the back wall. Along one of the short sides ran the kitchen and bathroom in two curtained alcoves. On the other short side, a huge bed piled deep with covers occupied one corner, a storage unit/wardrobe in the other. Other handmade furniture sat scattered about on the wooden floor. Between the front door and the kitchen stood a rough-hewn table with two benches. Before the fireplace spread a colorful braided rug, on which sat a rocking chair, and a wooden settee. All very primitive, yet somehow peaceful in their simplicity, Avon thought. It had all the necessities – food, water, heat. It was enough, he decided, as long as they had each other.

Avon was pleasantly surprise by that first meal: bacon and eggs, with fried potatoes on the side. He hadn't expected Vila to be so adept at cooking real food. They enjoyed a quiet, leisurely meal, so unlike the hurried snatch-and-eat-on-the-run food that was their usual sustenance aboard ship.

As the days ran on, they sorted out a division of labor: Vila dealt with everything inside, except for the fireplace, while Avon's realm was outside. He came to enjoy the physical labor involved in splitting wood for the fireplace. The repetitious, mindless activity seemed soothing. It improved his sleep, too, a considerable change from the insomnia he'd found increasingly on board Liberator.

After dinner, their day of exploring, housekeeping, or just puttering around over, their evening habit was to sit up together before the blazing fire, talking or just being together in companionable silence, arms about each other, mugs of coffee or hot chocolate nearby. The evening often ended with them making love on the rug, the dying embers of the fire reflecting ruddily off their faces and bodies.

One evening, silence seemed the rule, until Vila looked up from Avon's lap. "Let's go on a picnic tomorrow, shall we? We could explore further up this canyon and maybe see where our stream comes from. Hmmm? What say?" He stared into Avon's shadowed eyes inquiringly.

Avon took a sip of coffee before replying indulgently, "Of course, Vila, if that's what you'd like to do. Sounds interesting. If the weather's clear, I don't see why not." He smiled down at Vila.

"Then we'd better get some sleep," Vila said, "if we're to get an early start." The wicked red gleam Vila saw in Avon's eyes could have been from the fire.

"Well," Avon replied lazily, "early to bed does sound like a good idea, but it's not sleep I'm interested in." Dumping Vila unceremoniously to the rug, he sprang up, chasing a startled Vila to the bed where he rather precipitously de-clothed them both. They didn't get much sleep and woke much later the next morning than they'd planned.

As they followed the stream higher into the hills, they took turns carrying the picnic lunch Vila packed, because, to be absolutely certain they didn't starve, Vila had packed quite enough food to feed an army and the hamper was heavy.

The trail gradually rose and narrowed, finally becoming too narrow to walk side by side. In single file, Vila took the lead, with Avon bringing up the rear with the basket. He found himself wishing they'd brought a backpack of food instead of the hamper. It seriously unbalanced him. The trail narrowed even further and Avon began watching apprehensively as the stream, rushing frothing and cold beside them, came ever closer.

The edge of the trail gave way with no notice, pitching Avon over the edge of the bank, shouting out an inarticulate plea.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I don't own these Blake's Seven characters, but I do enjoy messing with them!

At Avon's cry, Vila turned sharply on the narrow trail, catching sight of the tech's boots vanishing beneath the water. He knew Avon didn't know how to swim and was deathly afraid of being under any kind of water, much less a swift-flowing wild stream. Vila didn't hesitate; he dove in after Avon.

"I'm coming, Avon," he yelled, getting a mouthful of water. He thrashed about in the water, feeling for Avon beneath the surface while trying to keep his own head above water, twisting wildly about, searching for the other man. When he finally spied Avon, being whirled about downstream, he struck out, swimming strongly. He focused so narrowly on his partner that he didn't see they were both being swept into even more danger.

As he made a desperate grab for Avon's collar, Vila was slammed forcefully into a drift of timber and debris in the stream. Pain lanced through him and his whole side felt on fire, but his only thought was of Avon being swept downstream away from him. With supreme effort, he pushed away from the log jam and into the current again, his eyes fixed on Avon's dark head. Though his swimming wasn't nearly as strong now, Vila managed to grab Avon's jacket and keep his face at least above water.

Vila's strength was almost gone when they were swept around a bend to within sight of the beach below their cabin. With the last of his strength, he gained the shallows and, stumbling drunkenly, dragged the unconscious Avon far enough onto the sand to be out of danger. Then he too collapsed.

Much later, Avon came out of his stupor, rolling onto his side and retching up the volumes of water he'd swallowed. His whole body ached, like he'd been in a brawl and lost. Glancing around, he wondered how he'd come to be on their beach. A groan behind him intruded. He turned, staring in shock: Vila lay sprawled on the beach, his clothes in tatters and his body and face a mass of livid bruises and punctures.

Avon crawled to him and pulled Vila's head into his lap. The injured man was having trouble breathing and making feeble efforts to move, with little success. Avon hadn't the strength yet to even stand, let alone move Vila. All he could do was to hold Vila and wait.

"Vila! Speak to me, Vila! Say something, anything…" he pleaded. No response. Vila looked so pale and drained, except where bruises and welts marred his body. Avon closed his eyes for a moment, overcome by a wave of weariness.

A weak voice whispered, "What do you want me to say, Avon?"

Avon's eyes flew open, staring into Vila's face. Vila was grinning weakly. He asked curiously, "How long have I been out? Must be awhile if it's getting dark already."

"Huh?" Avon said intelligently, shaking his head, willing his foggy brain to cooperate. "It's barely afternoon and bright and clear here."

"Well, it sure seems darkening to me. Just let me rest awhile, okay? I'll feel better soon and we'll get into the cabin and dry and warm again."

Avon couldn't tell whether he'd drifted asleep or lost consciousness. Worry lent Avon enough strength to stand and carefully draw Vila further up the beach and, eventually, with several stops to regain his strength, into the cabin. With the last of his energy, he undressed Vila and got him into their bed.

The clothes were a dead loss. They appeared to be cut or ripped in dozens of places all down one side. Turning Vila over gently, he examined that side more closely in the failing daylight that managed to filter through a small window. He drew back with a hiss of shock. The entire length of Vila's side was a mass of punctures. Many of them still had ugly red thorns imbedded in them.

Avon lit a lamp, got the first aid kit, and, perched on the edge of the bed, set to work removing them. A long time later, when he'd finished, he breathed a weary sigh, glad Vila hadn't awakened during the process, even though that worried him as well. He threw the thorns into the fire he'd hastily lit to ward off the evening's chill. Covering Vila and wrapping a blanket about himself, Avon sank into the rocking chair he'd pulled up beside the bed. In minutes, he'd slipped away into an exhausted sleep.

The chill awoke him some time later. Both the lamp and fire were burning low, barely glowing embers in the fireplace casting faint red highlights across the floor and furniture. By the lamp's yellow light, he could see Vila sitting up in the bed, eyes wide and staring, blankets clutched to his chest. When Avon rose silently, Vila didn't react until he spoke.

"How do you feel?"

Vila squeaked, flinching away from the hesitant touch of Avon's hand on his tense arm. "Avon, is that you? I can't see you. Why can't I see you?" Vila voice climbed higher, rough and desperate.

Avon sat down on the bed and pulled Vila into his arms. "I'm right here, Vila. It's okay, the fire's just gone out, is all. You're safe now. Just be quiet and go back to sleep," Avon crooned, trying to soothe Vila, who was shaking violently.

"But, Avon? I feel so strange and there's no light anywhere. I'm so cold, Avon. Hold me closer, please?"

Avon was very worried, but he couldn't let Vila know that. Sliding into the bed, he pulled the covers over them both as he lay full length along Vila's shuddering body, trying to give his own warmth to the injured man.

"Just hold me, Avon," Vila whispered as he clutched at his lover, trying with desperate strength to burrow into Avon's shoulder.

Avon drew him closer, brushing hair out of Vila's face, caressing a thumb down his cheek. Mindful of his welt-covered side, he bent their clasped hands to rest between their bodies. He kept watch over the injured man until his body and breathing quieted in sleep. Only then did Avon allow himself slide into slumber.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: I don't own these Blake's Seven characters, but I do enjoy messing with them!

Outside, morning dawned, a bright new day, full of promise. Birds warbled in the trees and insects set the clearing abuzz.

Inside the cabin, everything had gotten worse overnight.

Avon, stiff and sore, hobbled about, building up the fire from its bed of coals. He was just starting to get flames from his tinder when Vila's terrified scream brought him stumbling to his bedside.

"Avon, where are you? What's happened? Why can't I see any light? Avon, where are you?"

"Quiet, Vila, I'm right here. Calm down. Everything's going to be all right." He held the panicked man, murmuring reassurances into Vila's sandy hair while tracing soothing circles on his back.

After a time, Vila finally surfaced, hiccupping a couple of times and swiping at his damp face. Fairly calmly and a touch dryly, he said, "Avon, stop talking nonsense and tell me the truth, please?"

Avon looked down at his face and had a few moments of panic before he answered. How had everything gotten out of his control? This was meant to a holiday. Yet, here was Vila, in pain and…not seeing.

Beyond first aid, Avon had little knowledge of medicine, preferring the precision of his computers to touchy-feely things like human medicine. Indeed, he hated anything to do with medicine, feeling that most practitioners he'd run upon were only a few steps removed from witchdoctors. He didn't even really trust ORAC, especially when it was he, himself, on the med couch.

Now he had to talk to Vila, to tell him the truth.

"I…I don't know what's wrong, Vila," he admitted with a sigh. "I wish I did. As far as I can tell, you hit something in the water yesterday that left a lot of thorns all down the left side of your body. I got them all out, I think, but…" he paused, not wanting to go on, but he had to be honest with Vila. He took a deep breath before he continued. "I…think the thorns were poisonous, Vila. Physically, you seem to be all right, but for some reason, you just can't see." Vila sobbed aloud at that and Avon hugged him tightly to his chest until the tremors passed.

Trying to put a brave face on things, Avon continued, "Maybe it's just temporary. Maybe a reaction to the thorns and the water or something. I'm no expert in these things. We'll just have to wait and see. Until then, you'll have to be brave and trust me to help you, okay?"

Faintly, his voice muffled by Avon's shirt, Vila answered. "What choice have I got, Avon? Of course I trust you, but what'll we do now?"

Avon thought a long while, turning over options in his head and discarding them, one by one. Finally, he softly replied to Vila's question, even though he suspected the injured man had fallen into an exhausted sleep by then. "We wait, Vila, we can only wait." He sat holding the sleeping Vila for a long silent while before he got up to do what needed to be done.

When next Vila woke, it was to the sounds and heat of a crackling fire and the smells of food cooking. He lay with his eyes closed, snuggled into the warm blankets, savoring these sensations. Then he opened his eyes and saw…nothing. And he remembered.

"Avon, you there?" The sound of Vila's voice, like a child lost in the night, fearful, alone, tore at Avon's heart.

In three long strides, Avon was by his side. Placing a hand reassuringly on Vila's shoulder, he tried with a supreme effort to be cheerful. Putting a smile into his voice, he said, "So you finally woke up. Hungry? I hope so. I'm not the best cook, so you'll have to be hungry to eat my cooking."

Vila responded with a weak smile, but his voice, when it came, revealed his unease. "I still can't see, Avon."

"I know, Vila, I know," he said quietly. "There's nothing I can do about that until ORAC retrieves us. With our communicators out of order, we haven't any way to contact the ship before the end of our two weeks' holiday." The last words left a bitter taste in his mouth. What should have been two weeks of relaxation for the two of them had turned into a new kind of hell.

Shaking off his depressing thoughts, he spoke more cheerfully than he felt. "Now, how about some food?"

Vila groaned, but not with pain. He knew Avon wasn't much of a cook and fully expected the worst. "All right, if I must," he answered resignedly. "If I survived the water and the thorns, more or less, I guess I can survive your cooking."

Avon laughed and went to get Vila some food, which proved to be not quite as bad as Vila had expected, but barely.

Their days settled into a new routine: Each morning, Avon cleansed Vila's side, helped him dress, and guided him to a seat before the fire, tucking a blanket around him. Then Avon went about the necessary business of the day, like chopping wood, preparing food, keeping things clean, worrying about Vila. They sat and talked for hours, sometimes inside, sometimes outside, if it wasn't storming again, sitting on the large wooden porch where Vila could feel the afternoon sun on his upturned face, though he saw no light from it. In the evening, after supper, they cuddled before a blazing fire, sometimes talking, but more often just being together. Avon then helped Vila to bed, where they snuggled together, warm and as secure as they were likely to feel until Liberator returned. Often as not, Avon would wake in the night to the sound of Vila, crying soft tears, even snuggled into his arms.

Avon watched his friend and lover with a worried frown clouding his face. Vila tried to put up a brave front, but Avon wasn't fooled. Each day Vila was quieter, harder to pull into conversation, more prone to sleeping than talking or moving about. He could feel his way about the cabin to the bathroom facilities. Most of the impediments had long since been moved or broken. But Avon feared he could see Vila slipping away, day by day. It wasn't physical. It was as though Vila's spirit was draining out like a slow leak. Soon, there would be nothing left and Vila would be a flat, empty husk.

By Avon's calculations, it was still a couple of days before their retrieval when everything came to a head. Vila had said almost nothing all day, despite all Avon's efforts. He hadn't even wanted to get out of bed today. There was another storm brewing outside and the wind threatened the structure and hurled leaves and other debris against the windows and moaned down the chimney. An oppressiveness blanketed everything like a damping force field.

Perhaps it was the electricity in the air or just plain desperation that caused Avon to snap. When Vila stubbornly refused to get out of the bed, Avon turned on him irritably and said, "Okay, just lay there! Don't try. Just wallow in self-pity until you drown in it. I'm going out for a walk!"

As he grabbed his coat and headed for the door, he heard a weak voice tentatively call, "Don't leave me, Avon, please don't leave me here in the dark. Alone. Please?"

Avon stopped, his hand on the door handle, trying to rein in his frustration and irritation. Of course he hadn't meant his angry words. It wasn't Vila's fault, was it? Certainly the injured man wasn't the cause of the whole situation. That blame lay elsewhere. He would ferret out the one responsible and he would be dealt with in due time. For now, all he could do was survive and make sure Vila survived.

After a few moments, a sigh escaped his lips and his shoulders sagged. Without turning his head, he said in a low, defeated voice, "I'll be back, Vila. I just need to get out for awhile. Go to sleep. I'll be back before you wake up." With that he opened and stepped through the door. The suction of the slavering wind pulled the door closed with a slam.

Vila, however, couldn't' hear him above the whine of the wind against the house. He stared sightlessly toward the slammed door, then struggled to escape the bedcovers, trying to follow Avon. Getting thoroughly disoriented, he blundered about the room. When at last he found a door handle and felt the door shudder from the storm's attack, he wrenched it open and stepped outside.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: I don't own these Blake's Seven characters, but I do enjoy messing with them!

The wind struck at Avon, pelting him with unidentifiable projectiles. It swirled about him and drove at him. He turned to face the wind and drew in a deep breath of it. Its very wildness exhilarated him and blew away some of the tension that had been building in him until he'd felt like a ship spinning out of control.

He strode around the cabin, into the trees and up a path. The forest lessened the force of the wind, giving him some relief. Still, it moaned through the tree tops that lashed about like drowning arms seeking rescue. He hadn't gone very far when a thought struck him so hard he staggered to a stop.

A picture burst unbidden into his mind of the teleport bay on the Liberator, just before ORAC beamed first the other three, then himself and Vila down so many days ago. Tarrant was tinkering with a teleport bracelet and he'd handed them two bracelets without allowing them to select their own. Avon hadn't thought anything of it at the time, but now he knew how the bracelets had come to fail, stranding them here while Vila needed medical attention.

Tarrant had sabotaged them. In a flash of insight, Avon put together all the puzzle pieces of Tarrant's actions for the past few months and came up with the correct motive. The only one that fit all the facts, all the actions, all the words.

Tarrant was trying to get rid of Vila so that he could have Avon to himself! He'd been a dunce not to see Tarrant's plan before. Somehow, Avon had dismissed the young pilot, so rash and impulsive and unthinking. He'd been wrong though, and now Vila was paying the price.

"We'll just see about that," he said savagely. Turning abruptly, he headed back to the cabin to share his insights with Vila, hoping to spark some anger or indignation, anything from Vila that would put heart back into him.

As soon as he entered the cabin, he knew something was wrong. It was too silent, too empty. He went over to the bed. The bedcovers were heaped and tumbled and strewn across the floor but Vila wasn't there. Frantically, Avon searched the cabin, finding only disorder and debris.

Then he found the back door stuck partly open and knew immediately what had happened: Vila hadn't heard Avon's promise to return and must have feared, in his panicky state of mind, that Avon wouldn't come back at all. So he'd gone outdoors to find Avon himself.

Slamming open the door, Avon hurled himself through, roaring Vila's name over the howl of the rising wind. He circled the house, hoping, praying, fearing to find his crumpled body around each corner. He found nothing and he learned that panic could, itself, be ratcheted higher.

Think, Avon! Where would a blind man go?

Another bluster of the storm butted at his back, forcing one step forward out of him.

Of course! The wind would drive a blind man-Vila-downhill!

He raced toward the beach by the stream, trees twisting above him and bushes lashing out at his legs. The path bent, curving around a boulder, limiting his sight line. Scraping his hand along its pitted surface, Avon used it in a controlled slingshot turn, picking up momentum as he rounded it. The vista opened up, revealing, in the fading light, Vila's form sprawled partly in the water, face down.

Avon pelted down the path, falling to his knees beside the still form. Gathering Vila up into his arms, he staggered uphill toward the cabin. The mounting gale blasted twigs and leaves and dirt into him, pushing him away from safety, but Avon's will was stronger than any elemental force. Struggling over the last rise into the clearing, he mounted the log steps and hit the door with his shoulder, bursting into the quiet of the interior. The tempest he'd escaped raged impotently around the outside like a hungry beast.

Avon laid Vila on the bed, tenderly arranging his arms and legs comfortably. For the moment covering him up with blankets, Avon hurried to build up the fire. It was blazing when he returned and began stripping off Vila's wet garments. To his surprise, Vila already felt warm. With a sinking heart, he realized it was the start of a fever.

Avon did what he could, which consisted mostly of bathing Vila's face and body with cool water. Afterward, he collapsed into the rocker. His mind was swirling with dread, fearing this could be the final straw in Vila's deteriorating condition. The tech had somewhere along the line lost track of what day it was, but ORAC's scheduled contact couldn't be that far away. Vila had to hang on, just a little longer.

Reaching for Vila's hand, Avon held it tenderly between his own. In a stricken voice, he pleaded, "Vila, please don't die. You can't leave me like this. I wasn't leaving you, Vila, I just needed time to think. Please, Vila, please be all right. Please." The last came as a whispered sob, lost in the roar of the gale outside.

Other than tending the fire and sponging off Vila's sweating face and body, Avon never moved from Vila's side. The fever grew. Vila began to thrash about, raving in an anguished voice, "Don't leave me, Avon, please don't go away, I need you, Avon, where are you, Avon…" Nothing Avon could say got through the raging fever to reassure the sick man.

Outside, the storm finally broke. Blasts of wind shook the house, howling with fury when the cabin dared to withstand its assault. Rain battered windows and rattled the doors. All sound seemed to be swallowed up by the storm outside, even Avon's sobbing as he held Vila's hand and watched his friend and lover slipping away.

Sitting there hopelessly, uselessly, Avon's mind went round and round, seeking a way out of their tragedy, but he found none. Perhaps more to console himself than Vila, he climbed into the bed, his back against the headboard, and pulled an unresisting Vila into his lap. With a last bitter thought of hatred toward Tarrant for causing all this pain and suffering, Avon stopped thinking altogether.

Avon dreamed of himself and Vila, safe and whole and happy, back aboard Liberator among their friends. Outside the rough walls of the cabin, the storm had worn itself out, uselessly battering the structure.

The whine of the teleport effect, echoing loudly in the quiet room, startled Avon awake, his dream shattered.

Peering into the darkness, he was blinded by a bright light flashed in his face. He flung an arm across his eyes and called roughly, "Who's there? Speak up! Cally? Dayna?"

Tarrant answered, voice low and with an edge that revealed his tension. "It's me, Avon. I've come to finish the job I started. Vila can't have you. He doesn't deserve you. You're an Alpha like me. He's just a Delta, for gods' sake," he sneered.

His voice galvanized Avon; his arm clutched Vila tightly. Now what could he do? Tarrant was the enemy! Avon had spent fruitless hours trying to dissect Tarrant's plan, building defensive maneuvers and plots of revenge in the still air as Vila slept. None of them gave him any hope of defeating Tarrant while saving Vila.

Without a solid plan, he had bluff.

With great effort, he kept his voice calm and quiet. "You're probably right, Tarrant. Anyway, he's almost dead now. Light the lamp, will you, and I'll tend the fire." His heartless words left a bitter taste in his mouth. He was grateful Vila hadn't heard.

He gently disengaged himself from Vila and prayed it wasn't too late. Tarrant used his torch to find the lamp and matches and lit it while Avon went to the wood pile for kindling and sticks to add to the embers glowing red in the fireplace. He knew he'd have only one chance.

"That's more like it, Avon," Tarrant babbled happily as he tended the lamp. "I knew you'd see reason eventually. You're usually so logical about everything, except for this thing with Vila."

He was just turning from the lamp, his eyes still dazzled, when Avon hit him in the side of the head with a split piece of wood. Tarrant dropped in a boneless heap, much to Avon's satisfaction. Snatching the teleport bracelet from Tarrant's wrist, he snapped it onto his own and ran to the bed. Scooping up Vila, blankets and all, he cried, "ORAC, teleport NOW!"

Instantly the teleport effect took over, replacing the shadowed cabin with the brightly lit teleport chamber. Racing off the pad, he fled toward Medical, tossing over his shoulder, "ORAC, get Cally and Dayna up to med bay NOW!"

By the time he had Vila on the medical couch and was finished attaching sensors to him, Cally and Dayna came racing into Medical, raining questions on him. He cut them off, only saying Vila was injured and needed their help. Cally and Dayna took over from the exhausted Avon, leaving him free to retrieve ORAC.

He returned, carrying the super-computer, by the time they'd finished a preliminary examination. Connecting ORAC to the med computers, Avon slumped heavily into a chair next to Vila and captured his hand tightly. It was burning to his touch. Raising his eyes, he found Dayna calmly sponging Vila's sweating brow.

Silence reigned as ORAC and the med computers communed over Vila.

Cally was the first to break the silence. Gently, she asked, "Avon, what's going on? What happened to Vila and where's Tarrant? He said he was teleporting down to see why you hadn't answered our hail."

Avon tried to marshal his thoughts, but they wouldn't stay in nice, neat rows. It seemed years since they teleported onto the planet and so much had happened. Thrusting a hand through his matted hair, he tried to explain.

"I fell into the river and Vila jumped in after me. He must have been smashed into a log jam or something, because when we got out of the river, his side was full of red thorns. They…must have been poisonous. He's been sick ever since. About five days, I think…or has it been six?" Avon gulped; this was the hardest part. "Vila…he's blind. I don't know why. I couldn't' call the ship because Tarrant sabotaged our bracelets. When he came down to kill Vila, I knocked him out and took his bracelet. I don't know if he's dead or alive and I really don't care!" He ground out the last sentence savagely, looking up at the two with dark hopeless eyes. "Now it's up to ORAC, I think, whether Vila lives or dies."

Addressing the super-computer, he asked, "Well, ORAC?"

The peevish voice replied, +'Well' is not a question. Please restate.+

Sitting forward, eyes black with fury, Avon slapped a hand on the clear casing, snarling, "You box of tariel cells! Tell me what condition Vila is in and what we can do to help him, before I dismantle you and sell off your assorted parts!"

+You do not have to be rude about it! Vila is suffering from red thorn poisoning, as you deduced. His system was attempting to overcome it without much success. However, with the resources of the Liberator, he should recover completely. It will take some time because of the deterioration of his physical condition.+

Avon burst out, "Will he see again?" The answer took a million years to come.

+The prognosis is good. If the poison had stayed in his body much longer, however, the condition of blindness would have become permanent. As it is, recovery of full vision will take some time, but it will happen.+

Avon breathed a deep sigh and collapsed into his chair, still holding Vila's hand. Relief was written large across his face, softening the usually harsh lines. It felt like years since the beginning of their 'holiday'. Years since Vila's accident. Years since he'd felt anything but the weight of the sorrow now oozing away from him.

Vila would be all right. Vila would see again. Vila and he still had a future. Avon's brain replayed those sentences, each loop making him happier.

Then Dayna ruined his happy mood. "What'll we do about Tarrant?"

Avon's eyes darkened as he rounded fiercely upon her. "Leave him there! I won't have him back on my ship, even if we do need a pilot." He turned to stare at Vila, his eyes softening and a fond smile tugging at his lips. "Pilots are a credit a dozen. A good thief, however, is priceless, and I mean to keep this one safe for as long as I can."


End file.
